


City Sirens, Violins

by Saathi1013



Series: Lorem Ipsum [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, Domestic, OT3, Other, POV Male Character, Rough Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-28
Updated: 2010-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:38:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock evaluates his data, Sarah uncovers a drug ring, and John's many skills are put to use.</p><p>[This fic/series is canonical for BBC's Sherlock, Season ONE only; it's wildly divergent otherwise.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	City Sirens, Violins

**Author's Note:**

> Primary beta & britpick: Caoilin_Noir; final series polish provided by Mazarin 221b.
> 
> Special thanks to Carolyn_Claire, AccioAyla, Atlin_Merrick, Livia_Carica, MarieLikesToDraw, & BlanketForYourShock.
> 
> 'City Sirens, Violins' is a lyric from the song 'Mirrorball' by Elbow.

Sherlock has long since given up all pretence of objectivity when it comes to John and Sarah. It was...  _troubling_  at first, but the benefits so far seem to outweigh the attendant risks. In fact, direct involvement is not only highly satisfying, but allows him numerous opportunities to change variables as curiosity or boredom require. Thought experiments are no longer simply restricted to mere thought; 'what if' has been replaced by 'when.'  
  
For instance, given the following: Sarah cooking Sunday roast in her kitchen, with John setting the table.   
  
 _When_  Sherlock comes up behind him and carefully removes the cluster of cutlery from one hand, turning John round, John will startle at Sherlock's nearly-silent approach (war reflexes still intact), but will also submit to Sherlock's searching kiss. He will allow Sherlock to divert him from his task, until two plastic tumblers are toppled in a clatter to the floor, ignored in favour of more pleasant activities.  
  
At the sound, Sarah will poke her head round from the other room and scold John for spoiling his lunch. This is meant to be a joke, but both men will be too distracted to laugh. Her roast will end up a bit dry, because when he is done with Sherlock, John will stand and pull Sarah into the room and lay her out on the table while Sherlock watches from a nearby chair, cataloguing their expressions.  
  
Or, given: one horrible week in July when the police force seems astonishingly efficient (perhaps because their usual  _dithering_  takes more energy than anyone wishes to expend in the heat), Sherlock decides to cease communicating verbally.  
  
John shrugs and goes about his business, having been warned of this from their first meeting. He tries for three hours to break the silence by avoiding eye contact and deliberately misinterpreting Sherlock's gestures. Even the obvious ones that only involve, at most, two fingers. Sherlock texts him instead.  
  
 _I'm bored._  
  
"Good for you," John replies aloud and returns to the newspaper.  
  
 _Go commit a crime. I'll give you one hour's head start._  
  
"I commit enough crimes while we pursue your idea of 'entertainment,' Sherlock. I'm not getting another ASBO  _being_  your entertainment."  
  
Sherlock tries to burn holes through the newsprint with his eyes. Metaphorically, of course.  
  
He studiously ignores subsequent texts until Sarah arrives after work. John is warm and affectionate to her, pointedly so. "Fair warning," he says to Sarah, "Sherlock's in one of his silent moods."  
  
Sarah laughs and replies, "Well, only one real way to break that, isn't there?"  
  
They succeed admirably.  
  
***  
  
After several months, Sherlock has an astonishing amount of data. More than he knows what to do with, honestly.  
  
This realization brings him up short.  
  
 _Why on earth,_  he thinks to himself,  _am I still doing this?_  They occasionally surprise him, but his initial burning curiosity has faded drastically. He reviews his data, to see if he's missing anything.  
  
He discovers a number of paradoxes. He enjoys paradoxes; they're just puzzles he hasn't solved yet. It means he's overlooked some complexity that will inevitably lead to a solution.  
  
***  
  
First, John.  
  
Steady and calm, even when Sherlock brings home samples from the morgue (he's gotten used to them, or at least has stopped giving Sherlock the satisfaction of an overt response). He has sudden moments of precise violence when necessary, to heal - "Really, Sherlock, you should have told me you dislocated your shoulder earlier" - or to kill, in equal measure.  
  
He longs for the stability of a traditional relationship and a steady job; hence, Sarah and his GP work, both acquired in one fell swoop. But as soon as Sarah made it clear that an additional element (Sherlock) was not unwelcome, John went along with it enthusiastically.  
  
John giggles at crime scenes.  
  
John still puts up with his sister, despite everything she puts him through.  
  
He puts up with  _Sherlock_ , despite the Bathtub Incident.  
  
He hasn't forgiven Mycroft for the duplicity of their first encounter.  
  
John always,  _always_  looks vaguely rumpled, even in his dress uniform. And no matter how dishevelled he looks (crawling out of an attic, cobwebs and plaster dust and grime caked into the creases on his face), Sherlock wants to touch him. Correction: Sherlock wishes to do more than simply  _touch_  most of the time, but that is the standard minimum response. John makes his fingers itch, which Sherlock covers by fiddling with his gloves (when seasonally appropriate) or shooting his cuffs.  
  
Sherlock's inventory of John's paradoxes is interrupted by a spectacularly gory stabbing in a meat-packing facility. Their breath fogs in the air as they study frozen blood spatter on the metal surfaces. John doesn't bring his heavy jacket and, ignoring their usual discretion, keeps close to Sherlock for warmth.  
  
***  
  
Then, Sarah.  
  
She is, for lack of a better term,  _sweet._  It makes Sherlock's teeth ache just thinking about it. She's kind, and she's generous, and she's startlingly whip-smart at the strangest moments. He expects medical knowledge, but not "Ooh, an Indian swamp adder. Better keep that in its cage, they're terribly poisonous... what? I wanted to be a vet. 'Doctor' was more profitable and involved less manure. Mostly."  
  
She is, even compared to John, infinitely long-suffering. John will accompany Sherlock on cases, but Sarah is the one to wait up for them, sometimes for days at a time. And yet she's the only one of the two who can dress Sherlock down in such a way that he  _feels_ it like physical blow, and he doesn't know  _why._  
  
She also, it turns out, has truly eclectic tastes in the bedroom. With John, Sherlock observes, she's pliant and receptive and gentle.  
  
With Sherlock, she expects anything  _but_  gentle. She is always  _pushing_  him in one direction or the other, which suits Sherlock just fine. When she bites his lip or drags her nails down his back, his thoughts become sharper, more focussed. Seeing her pant and twist beneath his precise ministrations expands his senses until her faintest subcutaneous quiver becomes all-encompassing.  
  
She doesn't let him do much more than the basics if John isn't around, though. John makes it  _safe._  It's frustrating, at times. Sherlock thinks that, given the right conditions, she'd permit him to cut her if John were there to stitch her back together - but John would never allow it. Correct that to  _'tremendously_  frustrating.' Sherlock's never liked anyone enough to consider it before, and now he's unable to pursue it.  
  
These ruminations are curtailed by a drug-smuggling ring that Sarah herself uncovers when a patient collapses in her office with the alarming signs of an overdose.  
  
***  
  
The ringleaders of the smuggling operation - assuming they aren't secretly directed by Moriarty, damn him - take Sarah when they realise that it was she who informed the police. John's legs give out when they're told the news, and DI Lestrade crouches beside him, sympathy and solace in his gaze. He's murmuring something, but Sherlock can't hear a word.  
  
"My God," Sally's voice cuts through the clamour in Sherlock's brain. "Looks like you've got some human in you, after all." Sherlock realizes that his fists are clenched and he may have done more damage to Mrs. Hudson's wall.  
  
***  
  
When Sherlock finds Sarah, she's crouched in one corner of the shed behind an abandoned house that serves as headquarters. She has a set of handcuffs dangling from one wrist and an improvised blade in the other. It's a broken bit of glass, part of her shirt wrapped around the back of it to keep it from cutting her palm. Sherlock wants to cheer, the appalling impulse to say 'that's my girl,' sticking in his throat.  
  
"Oh, thank God, Sherlock," she says when her eyes adjust to the light enough to recognize him. "Have I told you how much I appreciate you teaching me how to pick locks?"  
  
"You can demonstrate later," he replies. "Can you walk?"  
  
"A bit stiffly, but yeah." He helps her up and they make their way outside. Soon as she's in the light he gives her a quick once-over. The whole upper right quadrant of her face is bruised, the eye swollen shut.  
  
"Did they. What else did they do to you?" Sherlock asks, the roaring rush rising in his ears again.  
  
"Nothing, nothing. I heard a couple of them talking about it. They wanted. They  _wanted_  to do more, but they had strict orders to rough me up a bit and then leave me locked up back here 'till I got picked up to go somewhere else... So I got free and broke the glass." She manages an expression that vaguely resembles half a smile.  
  
"Absolutely right," Sherlock says approvingly. "Brilliant.  You're  _brilliant_. Now let's go. The police are about to raid the house itself, and John's coming round the side."  
  
When he turns towards the back gate, there are two gunshots in quick succession.  
  
The first is from the stranger standing in front of them, a small-calibre revolver in his hand. All Sherlock can think is,  _protect Sarah,_ but it's already too late and irrelevant besides. There is blazing fire in his chest, and he can almost feel the bullet shatter his sternum like ice, bone chips slicing backwards through his lungs.  
  
This sensation could just be the result of having an exceptionally vivid mind and greater-than-average knowledge of bullet wounds, of course. Still, the result is the same: Sherlock crumpling to the packed earth in blinding pain.  
  
It's little consolation that the second shot was fired from John's gun, hitting the first gunman square between the eyes. Shortly after Sherlock falls, so does the other man. They are then followed by Sarah and John kneeling in the dirt, their hands on Sherlock gentle but firm as they push away his jacket and his scarf.  
  
Sarah's face above him is strained, her tender expression marred by the awful distortion of her right eye. "Not really the time, I should think," Sherlock rasps to her when John rips his shirt open. The effort of talking makes him choke and cough.  
  
"Shut up, Sherlock," John says absently. "Or I'll have her gag you."  
  
Sherlock just grins, wild and wide, tasting copper on the back of his tongue. Sarah strokes a hand over his forehead, her hand sticky. "This is going to hurt," she says. And then she bends down to press her lips to Sherlock's.  
  
 _What is she talking about?_  he thinks to himself. He can taste his own blood on her mouth.  _This isn't-_ ** _oh GOD._**  He accidentally jerks up, his teeth knocking against hers, and then he can taste her blood, too, sweet and kind and-  
  
John's fingers are digging  _inside_  his chest, through muscle and skin and blood.  
  
That's all he knows before the pain drags him under.  
  
***  
  
Sherlock comes to feeling as if he hasn't moved, only the acrid stinging scent of antiseptic proving him wrong. The bliss of narcotics drifts through his veins. He opens his eyes, then shuts them against the glare, groaning hoarsely.  
  
"Oh, thank God," John says to his left. "Don't try to talk, let me get you a glass of water."  
  
There's a cool hand on his face. "Sarah," he croaks.  
  
"Oh, for heaven's sake," she says. "Can't you  _ever_  listen?"  
  
 _When someone says anything intelligent enough for me to pay attention, I will,_  he wants to say, but there's a cup against his parched mouth and,  _all right, John may be on to something._  
  
He cracks his eyes open again, slowly. John is giving him a fond-but-worried smile. Sarah's bruises are livid yellow and green, the swelling thankfully gone.  
  
"How long?" he asks.  
  
"Too long," John says firmly, "but you'll be fine in a month or so."  
  
"You look like a dandelion," he says to Sarah before the drugs pull him down again.  
  
***  
  
When he wakes, it's dark and he doesn't see anyone around at first. But there's a faint, familiar snore from his left. He tips his head gingerly to one side.  
  
Sarah and John are curled up against one another on a badly-padded bench seat, with legs and arms tangled. There are special visitor's tags clipped to their shirts, likely thanks to Mycroft. The awareness of another favour owed his brother pales compared to the sheer relief that John and Sarah are  _there_.  
  
 _Oh,_  Sherlock thinks to himself, the paradox suddenly resolving itself as he watches them sleep. An ache unfurls behind his ribs that has nothing to do with pain medication wearing off.  
  
 _Sometimes a puzzle is harder to solve because the solution is_ ** _simple._**

 

 

\- end of story 4 -

**Author's Note:**

> Future stories in this series will have their own warnings - read the headers carefully before proceeding.


End file.
